


King Walk

by Nivose



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29255871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nivose/pseuds/Nivose
Summary: "The king is a fighting piece." - Wilhem Steinitz, 1st World Chess Champion
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	King Walk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosedamask](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosedamask/gifts).



_Reykjavik, 1972_

It isn’t until nearly an hour into their game that Beth finally notices it. And after that, she can’t unsee it.

Borgov isn’t wearing his wedding ring.

It’s the final game of the World Championship—the prize Beth had sought for years and the last crown she could take from Borgov. Off the court, in the hallways of plush carpeted hotels, seated next to each other at various rubber chicken dinners, he is Vasily and she is Beth. But whenever it comes time to play him, he reverts to Borgov in her mind. She wonders if he thinks of her as Harmon.

She wonders if he thinks of her at all outside of their world of sixty-four black and white squares.

She’s waiting for him to move, had been for the past fifteen minutes. It gives her time to study his hands, large and sure and steady. Around his ring finger, a tell-tale circle of skin a shade lighter than the rest of his olive complexion. So, it was recent.

“Adjourn,” Borgov says, startling her. He holds her gaze and Beth feels a hot blush creep from her chest all of the way to the roots of her red hair. She’s been caught staring.

After Borgov seals his move, they stand together upon the stage, squinting in the bright footlights. As the crowd cheers, Borgov slides his hand solidly against the small of her back and whispers, “My wife and I are getting a divorce.”

He leaves her then, the memory of his touch still burning against her like a brand.

She is furious. Beth had come too far to be distracted.

She is intrigued.

She will not be getting any sleep tonight.

*

Their game the next day is a torture unlike any Beth had ever experienced.

Time itself moves with a thick, molasses-like slowness. Every advance she makes is blocked. Every advance Borgov makes, she sidesteps. She moves the same three pieces back and forth without getting anywhere. Even Borgov begins to visibly sweat. His moves were always so confident and decisive, but today they just feel labored.

Perhaps he is distracted by his divorce.

Perhaps he is distracted by _her_. Beth squirms in her chair at the thought. Her dreams the previous night had been filled with black and white pieces, moves and countermoves, and hands—large, steady hands, coaxing and turning in a way that makes her feel hot all over.

Borgov slams the table, an unusual display for him. He sighs, resigned, and locks eyes with her. “Draw?”

It’s tempting. Their game is going nowhere. But, a draw isn’t a win.

“You would still be world champion,” he says, as if reading her thoughts.

“ _Co_ -champion,” Beth amends, petulantly.

Borgov leans back in his chair, expectant. Beth casts her eyes over the board again—he’s right, there is no easy path to victory for either of them. And a co-champion is still a champion.

“Draw,” she says, holding out her hand in agreement. He clasps it in both of his and smiles, a true smile. The same smile that had been making Beth’s insides feel warm and gooey ever since she had beaten him that first time in Moscow.

They stand again before the crowd, applause thundering in the cavernous indoor stadium. He keeps his hand at the small of her back the whole time, sure and possessive. In her white dress and his dark suit, they are proclaimed co-champions, standing before the world looking like the figures on top of a wedding cake.

*

Halfway through the formal reception in the hotel’s shag-carpeted ballroom, Borgov turns to her and says, “This is boresome. Leave?”

Beth feels her mouth go dry, but finds herself nodding along. Borgov takes her hand, and slyly pulls her through an unmarked door leading to a service elevator. He pushes the buttons for the penthouse. The elevator starts to rise and Beth feels her stomach start to float along with it. Four floors up, Borgov hits the emergency stop and pushes her up against a wall in a fluid movement. His lips crash down upon hers. He kisses like he plays chess—strong, solid, decisive. It’s a targeted attack, so precise it makes her knees go weak.

He breaks the kiss and they are both panting. For a moment, the slightest apprehension gleams in his eye. “ _Da?_ ” he asks.

Beth laughs. “ _Da_ ,” she says, taking his face between her hands and pushing him against the opposite wall, returning the favor.

They make out in the elevator, panting and grinding like teenagers instead of grandmasters, until someone starts yelling through the elevator’s speaker in Icelandic. They laugh. Borgov hits the button again, moving them on their way. He doesn’t kiss her, but strokes her back, as if she is a fluffy Persian cat that needs to be petted.

Finally, the elevator dings, doors opening on Borgov’s lavish suite, high floor to ceiling windows giving an impressive view of Iceland’s almost alien landscape. “It’s much nicer than mine,” Beth admits.

Borgov tuts. “The Americans still don’t know how to appreciate you.”

“But you do?” Beth says, the words coming out bolder than she feels.

He nods very slowly, his confidence making Beth’s pelvis turn liquid. He gathers her in his arms, planting kisses at her temple, her earlobe, her neck, her collarbone, causing her to moan aloud.

“I…I’m not a virgin, you should know. I’m on the pill,” Beth blurts out. Why, she doesn’t know. Borgov always seemed so starched and old-fashioned, hardly part of the counterculture.

He chuckles a little to himself. “Harry Beltik. And Benny Watts,” he says knowingly, then shakes his head, advancing on her with that same maddening swagger. “ _Boys_.”

He doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to say it at all—Borgov, of course, is a man. An experienced man.

“Benny always wanted to talk about chess.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about chess.” A pause. “Not right now.”

His hands travel up the length of her spine, finding her zipper. He pulls it down slowly, as if he is unwrapping an especially delicate gift. There is a mastery in the way he touches her that she recognizes from their games together—it makes her shiver. Her white dress flutters to the floor in a heap of silk and chiffon, leaving her in nothing but her bustier and crinoline. It’s an old-fashioned look, perhaps, but somehow the brightly-patterned mod styles never feel right to her when she is playing chess. Borgov, still fully dressed in an immaculately cut dark Italian suit, apparently feels the same. And thank god—he wouldn’t be half as handsome in one of those loud plaid sport jackets so many of her competitors favored.

He smiles at her, and wordlessly leads her by the hand to a plush leather armchair, gesturing for her to sit. Now he does begin to undress for her, taking off his suit coat, his silk tie, depositing his cufflinks—two garnets so dark they are almost black—in an empty ashtray with a plink. Borgov favors her with an amused smile as he wordlessly rolls up his white shirt to his elbows.

“You look like you’re about to get to work,” she observes.

“ _Da_ ,” he says, “On you.”

He kneels in front of her, and begins running his hands up her silk-covered legs, gently stroking and teasing until his fingers hit bare flesh, causing Beth to jump. She knows what he’s about to do, she thinks. “You don’t have to,” she tells him.

“I want to,” he says, very simply. “Do you like it?”

Benny had never done this for her. She has flashes of memory of Cleo’s dark head buried between her thighs that night in Paris, but was too blacked out to really remember what it felt like. “I don’t know,” Beth says, feeling like a shy young woman for a moment, instead of the new world chess co-champion.

Borgov’s expression is soft and patient. “We shall see, then.” It strikes her in that moment how much he wants to please her. The contrast electrifies her—that he who had always been so withholding in their matches could be so giving here. At that moment, he began to tease her, fingers brushing against the thin barrier of her underwear and Beth lost all rational thought.

Borgov’s magic hands seemed to know just what to do, when to dip inside, when to tease her gently and when to stroke firmly. Just when her body was beginning to ache for more, he pulled her underwear down and replaced his fingers with his tongue and _oh_. It was heavenly, soft and warm and gentle, like nothing she had ever experienced. Lost in the pure sensation of it, Beth found herself forgetting whatever self-consciousness she might have had. Her hips bucked and thrashed against him with abandon, shamelessly grinding against his face. Borgov thrust two fingers inside of her, curled them just so, and sent her spiraling over the edge in what was undoubtedly the best orgasm she has ever had.

*

They lie together later in the rosy afterglow, Beth curled against Borgov’s firm chest. She feels content, and sated, her muscles completely liquid, all of the tension of the competition completely evaporated.

“A draw—it always leaves so much unfinished, no?” Borgov says, seemingly again reading her thoughts.

His words draw her attention again back to the game. A pinprick of apprehension threatens to break through her tiny pink bubble of happiness. “Will it be different, you think, when we play again?”

Borgov stubbs out his cigarette and turns to her. His face has relaxed, too, and she can see a smile tugging at his lips, a mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes. “I don’t know. I never made love to Luchenko.”

Beth laughs a little at the image. She is reassured somehow that this will be new territory for him, too.

Borgov gathers her close and kisses the crown of her hair. “ _Moya belaya Koroleva_ ,” he whispers. _My white queen._

"Good night." Beth snuggles tighter against his chest, yawns a little, safe and happy. “My dark king.”

**Author's Note:**

> In chess, a king walk refers to bringing the king out early in the game to attack, rather than leaving it defended until the endgame. Borgov would probably never condone this kind of strategy in a match (Beth would, she loves drama!) but maybe he's a bit more bold in his personal life. 
> 
> ♥ Happy Chocolate Box! ♥


End file.
